


A Valentine Card-tastrophe

by JenniferNapier



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale's Bookshop (Good Omens), Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Happy Ending, Hell, Holidays, Humor, Letters, Love, Love Letters, Short, Short & Sweet, Short One Shot, Sweet, Valentine's Day, Valentine's Day Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:33:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,999
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22747879
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JenniferNapier/pseuds/JenniferNapier
Summary: When Hastur finds a heart-shaped paper on his desk, all Hell breaks loose. Ligur tries to console him, Eric the Disposable Demon explains what a Valentine is, and of course, the disaster is all Crowley's fault. But the serpent quickly sets things right, and ends up making an angel very happy.
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley & Hastur (Good Omens), Crowley & Ligur (Good Omens), Disposable Demon & Hastur (Good Omens)
Comments: 9
Kudos: 54





	A Valentine Card-tastrophe

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Valentine's Day!  
> If you did not receive a valentine this year, consider this my valentine to you! <3

There were very few things in the Underworld that could surprise Duke Hastur. But this was one of them.

He stood in front of his desk-- which was so decrepit and full of rotted holes that the once-sturdy wood now appeared more akin to wet, broken cardboard. His long arms drooped at his sides and his head canted as he scrutinized the foreign object resting on top of his workstation.

The demon thought he’d seen just about everything Hell had to offer, but he’d never seen such an anomaly as this before. Duke Hastur twisted himself slightly to call over his shoulder, “L-” He stopped himself, hesitated, then continued to call out the first name that came to mind, “Ligur!”

He received no response, so he called again-- this time more loudly and with a greater twist of his body. _“Ligur!!”_ Hastur feared taking his glossy, abyssal eyes off the strange gift on his desk. But when Ligur still did not answer, he cast an impatient roar. _“LIGUR!!!”_

The other Duke stepped through the doorway, clearly in no rush and not at all alarmed by Hastur’s calls. Ligur had become desensitized to his volatile temper long ago. _“What?”_ he growled with an emphasized ‘t’ and a complete lack of concern.

Hastur only slightly calmed at his arrival. He threw a disturbed point at the object on his desk and hissed, “Wha’s this?”

Ligur gave it a dull stare. Then his cool blue eyes rolled to give Hastur a deadpan look. He waited a moment, then stated the obvious. “It’s a paper.”

Hastur spewed to himself before sputtering a frazzled explanation, “It’s shaped like….like….”

“A heart.”

“Exactly!” Hastur burst, thoroughly unnerved.

Ligur tore his hollow, judgmental gaze away from his fellow Duke and bravely stepped forward to approach the dangerous heart-shaped paper. Ligur calmly studied it. Hastur stepped up beside him and asked, “Is there something writ?”

Ligur turned it over. Glittered calligraphy was scrawled nicely across the back surface.

Both demons peered at it. Slowly, Ligur read aloud, “Roses are red.” His low, molasses tone droned through the air, making the poem sound like part of a satanic ritual. “Violets are blue.” He grew more and more uncertain about the words as he continued, but he was unable to back out by that point. “Sugar is... sweet... and so…” he grimaced, “...are you.”

Hastur tilted his head with a confused and offended wince. _“What?”_

Ligur’s blue chameleon had turned into a bright blushing pink, and so had his eyes. “That’s what it says,” he grumbled defensively, regretting his decision to read the letter out loud. Almost every other demon in the room had turned to look at the pair with a wary shock.

“Wha’s it mean?” Hastur demanded. He was certain that it was a joke. One that he didn’t understand in the least.

“I dunno,” Ligur mumbled. His face was sculpted into a dubious expression. “It doesn’t make sense. Violets are…. _violet._ Not blue.” He of all demons _knew_ colors.

“Let me see that.” Hastur snatched the paper out of the other Duke’s hand and glared at it angrily. When it didn’t make sense right side up, he turned it upside down, then sideways, inspecting every inch of it. There had to be a code. There had to be something they were missing. He threw a wounded hiss at Ligur, whining, “It says I’m _‘sweet.’”_ What a terrible thing for a Duke of Hell to be. He was thoroughly insulted.

Ligur didn’t have the foggiest idea how to console him, but he tried. “You’re _not_ sweet,” he growled back with a flash of his teeth, ready to tear into anybody who was foolish enough to argue with him.

Hastur felt a little better. He glanced back at the heart-shaped paper, then cast his soulless gaze around the office. Everyone had quickly returned to their work--which involved incorrectly filing taxes, altering legal documents, mutating diseases under microscopes, and worst of all; tying knots in string lights.

“This is _Crowley’s_ doing. I just know it,” Hastur seethed, his fingers clenching around the edges of the paper heart.

“I don’t think Crowley would call you somethin’ like that,” Ligur shook his head. “He’s bold, but he isn’t _that_ bold.”

Hastur’s rage brewed. He spun around, scanning the room for any demon that could have possibly been that bold. Or stupid. His eyes landed on one in particular. “YOU!” he snapped, waving the half-crumpled heart. “Did _you_ do this, you rotten little rabbit?”

Eric the Disposable Demon turned, holding a stack of blueprints. “Me?”

 _“Get ovah here,”_ Hastur simmered.

Eric set the stack of blueprints down and quickly but cautiously obeyed. Hastur shoved the paper heart into his chest, asking accusingly, “Does _this_ look familiar?” 

Ligur stepped in close, his chameleon no longer a pink hue, but now a deep, sinister scarlet.

The lesser demon fumbled to hold the heart in front of himself. As he read the calligraphy, a smile spread across his young face. “Yeah, this is--!” he stuttered, quickly amending his initial reaction, “I mean _no,_ but I--” 

_“I knew it!”_ Hastur snarled, seizing the hare’s scarf. “You called me _‘sweet!’”_ he condemned with festering breath.

Ligur hovered in an uncomfortably close proximity.

Eric raised his voice, quickly correcting, “No! No, no, nononono, I would nevah!” he was laughing by the end of it. _“Trust me,_ I would _nevah.”_ Then he banished his humored grin and forced himself to be serious. “Evah. Nevah evah.”

A couple of duplicate Erics had wandered over, waiting their turn in line and prepared to answer any vile questions that Hastur spat at them after their copy had disintegrated. Hastur always grew even more upset if he had to scream for them to gather, so they’d learned to make things easier and simply gather ahead of time.

The Eric in Hastur’s grip hardly blinked as Hastur unloaded a furious lecture into his face, backed by Ligur’s deathly stare, solemn nods of agreement, and promises of pain. The other _non-_ disposable demons were nervously concentrating on their duties, each very grateful that the trio of Erics were there to literally take the heat of the Dukes’ wrath. Even the frog and the chameleon nervously squirmed atop the Dukes’ heads. 

Just as a Hellish heat began to singe the lesser demon’s scarf, Hastur’s tirade was interrupted by another letter fluttering down from above them. This one was colored a crisp, clean white and edged with delicate lace. It landed on Hastur’s wrists and quickly caught fire. In unison, the three demons slowly drew their gazes up.

Overhead, there was a pipe. There was also a hole in the pipe, where a leak once was. But now, the hole was stuffed with envelopes. The rest of the demons in the office cast their putrid gazes upward as well, fearful that they’d spot God Herself glaring down at them. Instead, there were more holes, filled with more blockages. The pipes creaked as they all looked up at them. The creak was echoed by another creak, and then another. A distant tremble rolled through the underworld, and then the pipes burst.

A great flood of rose, ruby, vanilla, snow, and cream-colored papers dumped into Hell by the tons. The flood was composed of hundreds of thousands of Hallmark cards, Chaucer poems, Shakespearean sonnets, children’s crafty creations, handwritten letters, and other paper artifacts of love. They spilled into the office endlessly, burying every demon at least chest-high. Glitter clouded the air like dust from a demolished building. It sparkled in the weary fluorescent lights. Not even a miracle could clear _that_ substance out of the room completely. What was once a dark and dismal Hell was suddenly blanketed in bright, beautiful, and cheery tokens of the tender holiday.

It was a complete crisis. 

“WHAT IS HAPPENING?” Hastur yowled, throwing his arms up to shield himself from a pelting barrage of baroque poetry.

Other demons chimed in, crying in terror, “We’re under attack!” and “Sound the alarm!” and most frantically, “This is an emergency!”

Amidst the shower of endearment, Eric blinked, holding his hands up as if catching raindrops. A letter landed in his palm and he read it. His duplicates were reading other cards as well. One was gathering a stack of pretty papers in his arms for safe-keeping. 

“They’re valentines!” the Disposable Demon laughed, his face alight-- but only briefly. Fear returned to it as Hastur and Ligur squinted at him through the rain of envelopes.

“Valen- _wot?”_ Ligur bellowed.

“V-valentines…” the hare repeated nervously. “They’re…. letters of…. affection?”

 _“What_ did you say?” Hastur threateningly waded closer to him (that is, as threateningly as a demon could when he was covered in lace and glitter and heart-shaped confetti.) Eric knew it would not be wise to repeat the ‘A’ word, and he knew the question was rhetorical. He winced apologetically and held onto his valentine more tightly.

Ligur really should have changed his name to Livid, by this point. “What are they doing down _here??”_ His chameleon was unable to decide which hue to reflect. It flashed between red, pink, and white-- involuntarily acting as a Valentine’s Day siren atop his head.

Eric called above the cascade of colorful crafts, which was starting to diminish, “I-I don't know. Somebody must be…. sending them.” For a second, he dared to feel a soft warmth inside his chest at the thought.

 _“Sending them???”_ Hastur erupted.

Ligur echoed him with a similar rage, “Who could _possibly_ be sending them???”

The last letter fluttered from the opened pipes, twirling between them and the doorway just as another demon strut through it. It was Crowley. The fashionable redhead balked at the sight of the Valentine-flooded office.

Every demon turned to look at the serpent.

Crowley’s gob dropped, but he forced it to re-hinge. “Ah, sorry gents! My bad!” he announced his apology, holding up a palm. 

“I _knew_ this was your doing!” Hastur whirled (as best he could) to the redhead, swishing in the pile of letters that partially buried him. Eric slowly shuffled away, glad to let Mister Crowley take the center of the Dukes' attention.

“Crowley, what is the meaning of this?!” Ligur boomed. His chameleon had decided to burn with a fiery red hue once more.

“It’s my, ah, Valentine’s Day sssabotage,” the serpent explained hesitantly. 

“Sabotage?” Hastur and Ligur asked in sinister synchrony.

“Yes, you see--” the redhead hesitantly stepped further into the room, glancing down to avoid stepping on any letters. “I took all the, uh…” he gestured upwards carelessly. “All the valentines from, well, the _entire world,_ y’ see, and ahhh, well I took them off the Earth!” he declared, assuming a theatrically triumphant pose. He brandished his hand in front of himself. “Every single one. So that, uh, no one could wish their... _‘loved ones’_ a... happy Valentine’s Day.”

They all stared at him blankly.

He didn’t feel very comfortable with the silence in the room, so he shrugged and pursed his lips. “It’s brilliant, really.” From behind his glasses, he glanced around at the piles of papers in front of him. “Frankly, I don’t see how you _don’t_ see that. If humans can’t spread _love,_ what are they gonna spread?” he shrugged. It was not meant to be a rhetorical question, but no one had moved a muscle-- except one of the Erics, who warily glanced between the three greater demons while trying to subtly hide a valentine in his coat.

Crowley had to answer his own question, and he did so with grandeur. “Darkness and destruction, naturally!” The Dukes remained unimpressed, and their shock was beginning to wear off. Hastur looked like he was about to burst into Hellflames, and Ligur didn’t appear much calmer.

The serpent quickly pitched, “You ever seen someone in a checkout line lambasting a poor clerk about an out-of-stock item? They throw a fit! A complete fit! It’s marvelous,” he threw his hands up. “There’ll be _loads_ of those today! Think of all the unhappy womenfolk, who get _no_ notes, _no_ cards, _no_ verbal sentiments _what_ soever.” He knew what the humans said, up on the surface. Hell hath no fury…

“You sent them all _here?”_ Ligur hissed.

“I expected them to fit,” Crowley winced. “Ah, tucked away. So they wouldn’t bother anybody.” He made a face and twisted himself to take in the sight of the half-buried office. “Obviously, I overestimated the tenacity of the pipes,” he admitted. Pinching his fingers together, he squeaked, _“Juuuust_ a tad.”

Sputtering and spewing with anger, Hastur yelled, “WHY send them all _HERE?”_

“Well, I wasn’t gonna send ‘em all up to _Heaven!”_ Crowley countered, shrugging grandly. “Where else could I have put ‘em?”

“I don’t _know!”_ Hastur wailed. “I don’t _care!_ Get them _out!_ Just get them _out!”_

Crowley perked up. An idea might have popped into his head. It was only detectable due to a moment of complete stillness from the nervously wriggly demon. “You said you don’t care where?” he asked, tilting his head hopefully.

 _“NOW!”_ Hastur screamed.

“Right!” The redhead threw a snap of his fingers upward. The sea of papers vanished in the time it took a man to blink. But, as predicted, the glitter was not able to be removed, even by a miracle.

“There you have it!” Crowley chirped, grinning. “All relocated to a _better_ place.”

Ligur’s glare drilled into him. “If you _ever_ do something like that again--”

Crowley cut him off before he could continue, nodding, “Yep! Got it!” He lifted his palms and stepped back. “Sorry! Sorry, everybody. Just tryin’ to meet the quota. You know how it is. Didn’t mean to _offend_ anyone with superfluous amounts of affectionate vocabulary.”

There was the ‘A’ word again. Every demon watched the redhead back away with a measure of either repulsion or hatred in their dark eyes. One of the Erics was trying very hard to brush glitter out of the tufts of his hair. Another duplicate tried to help him, but ended up sneezing. The third duplicate was hugging his coat closed over his body.

Crowley continued blabbering as he departed. “It’s taken care of. I’ll get back to watching the Antichrist now. Awful seeing you again!” he called.

“Likewise,” Ligur seethed, internally vowing revenge. Sweet, sweet revenge. One day.

While everybody else was distracted with glaring at Crowley, the Eric that was hugging his coat slipped away unnoticed, nearly dropping a stowaway valentine in the process. Luckily, nobody saw, and he scurried out through the back entrance to go read through his loot.

Simultaneously, the serpent gave one final wave before disappearing around the corner of the main doorway. _“Toodaloo!”_

The demons all stood in perplexed silence for a moment or two afterward. Ligur snapped at them to get back to work, then focused on the stunned Duke Hastur. 

“Too, da loo?” Hastur muttered with a deep infernal irritation. “Wha’s that _mean?”_

Ligur didn't have an explanation this time.

Duke Hastur began whimpering-- a sound that sounded like a mixture between an old man chuckling and a young creature dying. “Why can’t he just say... _‘goodbye!?’”_ he lamented with profuse frustration. “Is that so hard? To say a _simple_ ‘goodbye!?” He did not appreciate when the slithering bastard spoke the strange language of the humans.

Ligur eyed him and mumbled with a calm loathing, “You know what I think?”

“Wot?” Hastur wailed. Now it just sounded like he was on the verge of crying. Crowley never failed to drive him utterly mad-- particularly when he pulled traumatic, catastrophic stunts like these.

“I think you need to squash some Hellrats,” Ligur’s deep voice soothingly suggested. A hint of a grin tugged at his lips.

Hastur nodded in a daze, glad to think about worse things than love poems. “I would like that very much.”

“I’ll get the hammer,” Ligur offered, already marching toward the tool closet.

* * *

Nowadays, Aziraphale didn’t spend as much time in his bookshop as he used to. But every now and then-- particularly on certain holidays-- the Dowlings gave their resident gardener the day off. On those such occasions, he was happy to return home.

Not to Heaven. 

To his little shop in Soho.

When he walked through the door on that Valentine’s Day, he was greeted by the sight of hundreds of thousands of rose, ruby, vanilla, snow, and cream-colored papers that filled his shop by the tons. What was once a dim, dusty, semi-abandoned (but only temporarily) bookshop was now blanketed in bright, beautiful, and cheery tokens of the tender holiday.

It was a complete paradise. 

They weren’t so much in piles (there already were plenty of those heaping around,) but more in thoughtfully-placed groups. Hallmark cards, Chaucer poems, Shakespearean sonnets, children’s crafty creations, handwritten letters, and other paper artifacts of endearment were strung through the air from bookshelf to bookshelf, statue to spire, balcony to balcony, corner to rafter, and everywhere in between. They spiraled up his pillars. They were tucked in books and rolled in scrolls. They were dangling from strings taped to the ceilings. They were hanging in every aisle and entryway in banner-like fashion-- all displayed so that they could be discovered, collected, and most importantly, read.

And they were. 

Aziraphale had a grand old time giving every single valentine his cherished attention. The sonnets and poems warmed his heart. The children’s crafts made him chuckle. The hand-written letters that were originally intended to be between spouses made him teary-eyed. They were each precious to him. The superfluous amounts of affectionate vocabulary made his day. He was delighted to organize them all in his own special categorical system, and was joyfully busy for the entire day doing work that he loved. When he learned that there was an ineffable worldwide shortage of valentines, he didn’t bat an eye, nor intend to return _any_ of them.

They were all for him.

And he could guess who was behind such a lavish show of love.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you are very proud of me for keeping this one short. I tend to lengthen everything far more than I need to. I'm trying very hard to write more concisely, so this is a great accomplishment for me.
> 
> As always, feel free to comment if you'd like to. I love receiving comments and interacting with readers. I don't bite, so let me know which parts resonated with you and which parts didn't. Please ask if you have any questions, or give me a heads-up if you spy any wily typos!
> 
> If you'd like to be notified when I post new works, you can subscribe to me as an author on my profile! Feel free to follow me on one of my various Tumblr blogs, also listed on my profile. If you have any fic requests or want to trade art for a fic, you can reach me at jennifernapier1142@gmail.com.


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